REGRETS

 

R E G R E T S

New fiction by strzeka (12/25)

A successful wannabe wonders if what he has is really what he wanted

 

ONE

My prostheses were suddenly cursed with problems. The rim of my left leg cracked and soon split. I tried taping over it with Jesus tape which usually heals everything but this time, the sharp edge of the split cut through the duct tape and I had the problem back. When I tried winding it around the top of the leg to hold the split closed, the control cable on my right hook snapped. I didn’t have a spare. I had been thinking about getting a spare for months. I guess I learned my lesson.

 

The best thing to do was to get Chris round here with some transport and beg or bribe him to help out. I had spare legs in a cupboard somewhere. The trouble was and is that they don’t fit any longer, which is why I got this new pair. Newish.

 

I prefered these exoskeletal legs after trying out the standard socket plus pylon sort of thing. For a start, they look better under trousers and I liked the solidity of having an entire lower leg all one piece. When I wear them, I know how they’re going to behave. With the ordinary sort, the foot never feels reliable. I’ve worn fake legs for long enough to be prepared for the occasional mishap but I would prefer not to have the inconvenience. The new legs have been much more reliable even though they make me limp worse. But that is half the attraction. I wanted double below knee amputations to walk on rigid ankles and feet, rocking along like some hero of a forgotten foreign war, welcomed back by his friends who admired his prowess with artificial limbs, admired by everyone.

 

As I became used to life on stumps, I realised I had not actually become disabled at all. I had artificial legs, sure, but I was using them as well as my natural legs. No‑one seemed to notice there was a bilateral amputee in their midst and I was perplexed. I wanted attention so I liked the idea of having exoskeletals made. They were heavier than the socket and pylon things. Walking was more of an effort. To make matters even more difficult, I encased the rigid legs in thick‑soled motorcycle boots. I loved it. Now I was getting some welcome attention from men who understood something about leather boots and others who recognised the tell‑tale signs of a double amputee.

 

It happened again. I became so used to walking on my clunky booted legs that I did not feel challenged at all. That’s what I found most satisfaction in. I wanted to sculpt my body so every day would be a challenge. Every inconvenience would present another hindrance which I would have to solve through ingenuity with new artificial limbs. The only thing I could think of was to have my hands replaced with hooks. The Gatekeeper was most accommodating. He claimed he had been waiting for my call and allowed me a generous discount. In effect, the money I saved from the amputations paid for my airfare.

 

TWO

Chris agreed to help out as soon as possible which was the weekend after. I made a quick appointment with my leg man whose assistant took my call and told me that someone would be available to take my leg in for repair. I knew from experience that a hook cable was available from the shop in the lobby, assuming it was open. Why would it not be?

 

Meanwhile, I am back in my wheelchair, dragging myself around the apartment with an artificial leg. Both my hooks are on one and the same harness. I haven’t the patience to take the right pros off it using my stumps. I can’t open my right hook without a cable. It is mere decoration at the end of my socket.

 

It does look decorative. That was partly my motivation for returning to Mexico. I used the same Gatekeeper who arranged things with a suitable surgeon. I stayed in a different hotel. My nurse was a smooth‑skinned boy whose furtive glances signalled only one thing. As if I could have done anything while I was limbless in bed, or actually on a couch draped with a light blanket. My leg stumps were naked, my arm stumps were smothered in thick bandaging. Every half hour, the boy approached and lifted my head for support as he let me sip mineral water.

 

I had been over the moon with my leg stumps. They both healed beautifully. I had a generous amount of flesh at the tips to cushion the severed ends of my leg bones. I could set the flesh wobbling by swinging my stumps back and forth. I was the only one it amused. Most men looked at my stumps either in horror or in pity, depending on what sort of a partner I had tempted home. There were those who were smitten with my handsome features, let’s be honest. And there were those who were infatuated with the idea of playing with not one but a pair of leg stumps. I might have looked like Quasimodo as far as they were concerned. I have always been honest with my partners. I’ve never sprung my amputations on anyone as a surprise just as we’re climbing into bed together. And, of course, a few of my lovers are amputees themselves. How could they not be, knowing my predilections.

 

I stayed in Mexico until my fresh stumps healed well enough for me to be fitted with a pair of hooks. They were made locally from American components. I would be able to get spare parts back home. It was cheaper to stay in Tijuana than in Tottenham. Warmer, too. With better food. Actually, I should have just stayed there. I’m sure the boy would have stayed by my side. I would have watched him become a man as I became a physically active quadruple amputee. I never once considered the idea of acquiring stumps with the intent of begging on the street. I have only ever been interested in using artificial limbs of the most basic type and to be severely disabled in society’s eyes.

 

I returned home a quad amputee. Predictably enough, I had problems with my hooks. I was trying to use them to do the things I used to do before. That’s not the way things work, though. I had to discover the things which the hooks allowed. I suppose I was not as clueless as most double hand amputees when they first return home. After all, I had experience with learning to walk again on my first pair of artificial legs. I knew a few things would need relearning. But I found it an entertaining process.

 

THREE

As the weekend approached, I began to feel boyishly excited at seeing Chris again. We had met only twice before. The first time was at a posh dinner the society had planned for ages and the second time was about six months after his arm amputations. That was another member’s private party. I remember being so infatuated with Chris’s hooks that I probably pestered him too much that evening. But he was good‑natured and explained how they worked. I would have liked to see his stumps too but he did not remove his equipment. I cannot now be sure if it was my admiration of Chris’s personality or his physical transformation which tipped me over the edge and on the return road to Mexico.

 

Chris was one of the founding members of our exclusive Q4Q Society. It existed only in virtual reality on the dark web. There are between forty and fifty current members, most of them in this country. The society existed simply to serve as an outlet for victims of body integrity dysmorphia who wanted information and sources of voluntary amputation. People who felt they would feel better without a limb or limbs. Men who had already undergone elective amputations were encouraged to remain members for half the price of the annual subscription in order to encourage other members. The one official dinner was an astonishing affair. Fifteen members attended and it is probably no exaggeration to claim that a greater number of amputations has never been concentrated in such a small time and space as during that evening meal.

 

Chris had already progressed to long knee‑length stubbies which suited him better than any other prosthetic alternative. He had been almost two metres tall and was the ideal man’s man. The sort of person every man wished they were like, handsome, intelligent, cultured, manly, sociable. His curly blond hair and long flowing beard made him resemble a Viking lord. His blue eyes were too light. They were piercing, shocking. Now he stood at a far more conventional height but his original powerful build was still apparent despite his leather‑clad artificial stumps.

 

To my regret, he lived on the other side of the country and rarely had cause to travel far outside his familiar environs. I was delighted that he had agreed to help me out and in the hour before his arrival, I wondered if he was lonely or bored. I could not believe he would make such an effort to help me out over such a minor inconvenience if he did not have an ulterior reason. I decided I was being dramatic and peered out to see his red Humvee backing itself into a space in the visitors’ car park. I rose to my full height on my single leg and watched his exit. The vehicle was jacked up with a meter space between its chassis and the ground. Chris activated its lift and I watched him lower himself until he stood on both stubbies looking around at my immediate neighbourhood. He shrugged his shoulders to rearrange his arm prosthesis after the long drive and turned towards my building’s entrance. I admired his gait. He swung his leg stumps out broadly to each side. It looked powerful and masculine. His single chrome‑plated artificial arm glinted in the afternoon light.

 

          – Chris! Wonderful you could come! Come in, do.

          – I was coming this way, anyway, Dick.

I pushed myself around and thrust my non‑functioning hook towards the lounge.

          – Oh! I just realised! You got yourself hooks. Well done, mate.

          – It was what you said last time we met that decided me. I have you to thank.

          – Really? That’s great. As you can see, I’m one‑armed again. The other one is kaput so I’ve been doing everything with just the one for the past month or so.

          – That long? Is there no prosthetics clinic local to you?

          – Nope. There used to be but they closed down. The other arm is in the back of the car. I’ll drop it off at the same time as yours and let them courier it back.

          – Good idea. Are you hungry? Have you eaten?

          – I’ve had lunch, thanks. But you could brew some coffee and then we could get our pegs under us.

          – I’ll do that. You like it black, don’t you? Shall I make espresso?

I did so. Chris got up and perused my bookcase. Works by the top names in advertising, collections of posters from the London Underground to Polish cinema. All of them heavy tomes. He was unable to extricate any from the shelves with his single hook. He had fought within himself for many months before committing to his third and fourth amputations. ‘Urge versus conscience’ was how someone had described it. Chris had wanted to replace his hands with hooks but was uncertain whether to keep his elbows or not. Finally, a weeks long discussion on Q4Q had persuaded him that he would soon become dissatisfied with below‑elbow prostheses and would be miserable until he could return to a surgeon for revisions. It was better to go the whole way at once and spend the extra time gained as an armless man learning to operate the long and heavy prostheses which compensated for the loss of elbows, wrists, hands and fingers. The awkward mechanisms were operated only by precise shoulder movement and jerking the torso. Chris had known what to expect and became proficient in only four months. Both his arms were carbon fibre and chemically plated with chrome. They were spectacular and probably unique. His style of operation was also spectacular. His movements were fluid and almost always successful. His glittering prostheses made their operation difficult to focus on exactly. 

 

I brought two espressos to the table on a tray resting on my wheelchair supported by my inoperative hook.

          – Well done, Dick. It’s not easy with one hook, is it?

          – No but it’s the sort of thing we knew could happen. I really should have a supply of spare cables and rubber bands instead of being a victim of circumstance every time something goes wrong.

          – True enough. With me, it’s stump socks. I go through ’em in a fortnight.

          – I know. Same here.

We continued our ridiculous minor complaints for a few minutes until the coffee was drunk. I drank in Chris’s physical beauty too. His beard swirled around his face, neck and chest. His impossibly blue eyes seemed to see through any mutual gaze. His thick black stubbies were possibly the only thing about him which another man might successfully copy. Chris used them with a light cadence which denied the effort spent learning to walk after gaining two stumps less than half the length of the man’s thighs. I had not seen any of Chris’s stumps. I had only heard rumours. I could only imagine what the arm and leg stumps of such a heroic figure of a man in his early thirties could look like. His proficiency in video advertising had brought him the wealth which he had used to divest himself of his natural limbs in favour of prosthetic replacements, knowing that as long as he had his brain and his creativity, he could become as disabled as he had always fetishised. In reality, Chris was one of the most severely masochistic Q4Q members, transforming himself from a two metre god into a severely disabled quad who still had the charisma to command respect with an easy smile. I loved him like a lost brother but would never dare tell him. ‘Brother from another mother’, that was what they called it.

 

FOUR

Time to leave. Chris bounced in his seat until his stubbies slid to the floor. He stepped forward to stop his momentum. I was ready to go. Everything I wanted to bring was hanging on the back of my wheelchair and my catheter removed the need to stop on the way.

 

It was easy to access the Humvee in my wheelchair. Once inside the car, I pulled myself forward into the front passenger seat which I rotated to make more room for my leg prosthesis and also to get a better look at Chris driving with a single hook. He had obviously adapted himself perfectly to managing life with artificial arms and simple hooks. His pair were far more demanding than mine. Chris had arm stumps of a highly practical length extending from his shoulders which allowed him some additional range of motion. He had honed his actions so that he resembled an athlete in motion rather than a bilateral arm amputee. He stepped from the lift into the driver’s seat and banged his stubbies together to clear the bases of grit. He looked at me and grinned.

          – Ready? You sure you’ve got everything you need? Keys? Money? Passport?

          – Yes to all that. I shan’t need my passport for a while.

          – Ah! I was going to ask you about that.

He pressed a series of buttons with his hook to start the vehicle. The accelerator, brake and steering were controlled by a joystick between his stubbies. He fed his hook into its control ring but was unable to close its clasp. We reversed slowly onto the road and shortly headed north into deepest Essex.

          – What was I saying? Oh yeah. I was going to ask you how you like being a quad.

          – I like it just fine. I have the stumps I always wanted and apart from the occasional hiccup like this, I manage just fine.

          – But do you have the stumps you want? That’s what I was curious about. I heard through the grapevine that you didn’t feel right within yourself after you learned to walk again.

          – Well, I felt OK. I mean, it’s true that my stumps stopped giving me the joy they did when they were new.

          – And you decided to make life more interesting for yourself by getting rid of your hands.

          – Yeah. I watched you at that birthday party and how you looked so perfect with both your arms converted into chrome beauties. I was jealous as hell! So that was how I decided to have my hands off in the hope that I would not only be following your example but I’d also have a bigger challenge in my life.

          – I’m glad to hear that, Dick. It’s always been my intention to act as a friendly example of someone to copy, even before I got my leg stumps. I tried to keep up with the latest styles in facial hair and the like, went to the gym when muscles were in fashion and then running when we had to be lean again. I thought I’d buck the trend and go for something which had always bothered me at the back of my mind, especially after I grew to two metres tall.

          – So you had your legs off and got yourself stubbies.

          – Exactly that. I don’t know if you’ve seen my stumps yet, Dick, but we can probably arrange it at the clinic. You might like what you see and prefer something similar for yourself.

          – Are you trying to persuade me to have a revision?

          – Not really. Well, maybe. Sort of. Haha! Stump envy is wicked, ain’t it?

          – Is that what drove you to have your legs off?

          – More or less. I was a member of a gym near Aldershot where there’s a big military base and it’s where all the vet amputees get taken. It’s not really surprising that the ones who are on the mend but are still waiting for prostheses and the like have to hang around. Anyway, there were two good‑looking blokes at the gym who’d lost both legs above the knee and I just couldn’t get over how good their stumps looked. They both walked on their hands, keeping their stumps pointing up, you know how amps do.

          – Yeah. It looks horny.

          – So that’s where I got the idea. Or maybe not the idea, because I’d been thinking about amputation since I was a kid. But they sort of confirmed for me that it was what I needed for myself. After a while, and with the encouragement of a couple of Q4Q members, I went out to Thailand to have my legs off. I deliberately chose sort of short stumps so I would be better off walking on stubbies rather than tall normal‑looking legs.

          – Your stubbies are fantastic. They look really good on you.

          – Thanks. I love wearing them but I’ve also become fond of handwalking on my butt at home. I love the way I can scoot about without much effort. I love the look of my stumps, Dick. It’s a shame I don’t have anyone to pay homage to them.

          – I suppose now you have your arm stumps, it’s a practical matter too. It must be easier to don a pair of stubbies than handle all the socks and liners for a pair of prossies.

          – It is. I could have long legs again but I’d want to be two metres tall like before and the leg men I’ve spoken to about it have recommended against it so I’m sticking with stubbies. This pair is really great. They fit perfect and are just the right length for a decent step when I swing my stumps.

          – I like the way they narrow toward the tips.

          – So do I. That’s why my half legs are so good. I can decided on the shape of my stubbies. If I had long stubbies, I’d be stuck with the traditional elephant legs.

          – Ha! Is that what you call them?

          – Yeah. Straight cylindrical stubbies are elephant legs.

          – They still look great.

          – So are you thinking about getting yourself a pair?

          – No, I’m fond of these exoskeletals. They disable me enough to give me an obvious limp and they make me feel disabled which is important to me. But as much as I love seeing you walking in stubbies, it’s not for me. Not yet anyway. Maybe if I started having problems with my knees it might be something to look into.

          – I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a revision within ten years. I’ve no experience of it myself but I’ve heard that legs like yours end up ruining your knees pretty soon.

          – I know. There are other designs for legs intended for below‑knee types like me. A kind of full‑length thigh socket which grips your thigh and the lower leg is attached to that without putting extra pressure on your knees.

          – Get yourself a pair like that before the problems begin, Dick. If you’re not having your legs off above your knees, you better start taking care of them.

 

FIVE

I returned the seat to facing forwards. Chris made a point which I had occasionally thought about. Having come so far with my transformation and still not being completely satisfied with the way I felt in myself, I must admit to thinking about further corrective surgery or revisions, as the saying was. Mostly I was genuinely concerned about my long forearm stumps. I had imagined myself strolling along a sunny seafront or through a central London royal park teeming with tourists with my naked stumps on display for everyone to admire but the opportunity never seemed to arise. I was condemned to taking what pleasure there was in my rigid forearms and steel hooks alone in my apartment. I glanced at Chris and took in the gigantic swirling beard nestling on his chest, his single chrome artificial arm moving gently to control the speeding Humvee and his glossy black leather stubbies, now splayed and manspreading. I could imagine how comfortable it was to sense the mere stubs of once powerful thighs, envied by men in gymnasiums and clubs. As if reading my thoughts, Chris shifted position and his stubbies pointed even more acutely upwards. I looked away, desperately hoping my erection was not obvious. I distracted myself with a hopeless effort to remove a rubber band from my right hook.

 

Once again I was putty in Chris’s hooks. He had unwittingly regenerated all the insecurity I felt which had led me to my present state of limblessness in an attempt to prove to myself that I had the right to be the amputee I wanted to be with the respect I deserved. I tired of playing with my hooks and my attention returned to admiring the phallic beauty of Chris’s shapely stubbies. I was aware of my own leg stumps encased inside my rigid artificial legs and began to debate the pros and cons of our respective situations. It seemed obvious that Chris was the winner. The extrovert way he displayed his amputations went far beyond my half‑hearted efforts. A keen‑eyed observer would have no trouble identifying me as a legless cripple but seeing Chris needed no trained eye. His elephant legs were blatant, shocking and immensely desirable. His arms were extrovert, stunning, appalling. His hooks were almost invisible in the shine and gloss from the chrome arms. Both of Chris’s arms appeared completely artificial, clad in chrome steel. My pair were common or garden black carbon and extended as far as my elbows. I could sense my long stumps gradually becoming sweatier in the confines of my sockets and wished I could function better with naked stumps. But unfortunately I was too impatient with myself and functioned better with hooks. Now I was impatient to have a mere control cable replaced. Such a minor procedure but one I was unable to do for myself. I could not even adjust the number of rubber bands on my wrists myself.

 

Chris guided his massive car into the clinic’s parking space with his legs still akimbo. He killed the engine and we sat for a few moments planning our next moves. I needed to shift my leg prostheses to a position from which I could exit the cabin. Chris needed to lower his stubbies to make himself decent and arrange himself so he could latch on to the door frame for support if necessary. We retracted into our own personal challenges until we were both ready for the doors to open and the lifts to lower us to earth. I rocked myself up to speed and swung my stumps at a comfortable rate. Chris waddled beside me, swinging a locked chrome arm for balance. The automatic door slid open and we entered the familiar clinic. The receptionist remembered us both and announced our arrival to our respective prosthetic technicians. They arrived within seconds of each other and we continued to the workshop where our specific problems could be rectified.

SIX

Chris’s problem was immediately obvious.

          – The other arm is in the back seat of my car. I would have brought it in but didn’t really trust myself not to scratch it up.

          – It’s OK. Someone will fetch it in a moment if you open your car door. Is there anything else I can do for you? I mean your arm prostheses.

          – I’ve been considering worker’s hooks. How much for a pair?

          – They’re seven fifty each.

          – So a thousand five hundred for a pair.

          – About that. I can let you have ten percent off.

          – OK, thanks. Will you order a pair, please?

 

My prosthetist was a familiar face. We had spent a considerable amount of time in each other’s company when my stumps were still fresh. He demanded that I undertake all the physical training designed for new hook users and at the time, I hated him for it. Now with a little more experience of the handless life, I was grateful to him for preparing me for the continual series of shocks and disappointments a bilateral arm amputee experiences.

          – Are you satisfied with your sockets, Dick?

          – I suppose so. They fit well enough, no slippage, so I’ve grown used to their presence and it’s begun to feel normal. Also, I don’t try using them for things I know they’re not suitable for any longer so I’m not faced with continual disappointments and frustration.

          – That’s the most difficult thing to overcome, I think. Learning what your hooks are capable of and rearranging your life around that. After that, each new ability comes as a pleasant surprise rather than the end result of a miserable series of failures. Right. I suggest you replace both cables at once, here, now. If one has snapped, the other can’t be far off. Take your arms off for me and I’ll replace the cables. Is there anything else which needs attention?

          – Not at the moment, thanks.

I arched my back and gradually loosened my sockets enough that I was able to shake the harness free. The arms were taken off to a work bench and the prosthetist disappeared to the stockroom for new cables.

 

In the meantime, a young lab assistant had run out to the Humvee and collected Chris’s broken arm. He too had doffed his harness and now stood watching his prosthetist first disassemble the elbow joint and then reassemble it after tightening a couple of errant screws. He assisted Chris to don his harness again, now holding both arms. Chris shrugged his shoulders to seat his sockets more firmly and to rotate them to the optimum angle. His prosthetist watched him closely, taking in the practised motions and the fluid surety of his actions. The splayed stubbies were intriguing. How did such a severely compromised amputee, so handsome and apparently virile, manage to overcome the challenges posed by his limblessness with a full set of artificial limbs, apparently of the most unsophisticated kind? Surely there were better solutions for leglessness than the unwieldy elephant legs which double above‑knee amputees were desperate to be rid of? Why did he insist on body‑operated hooks on admittedly spectacular inert sockets? Surely bionic alternatives would serve him better?

 

We returned to the Humvee after three hours, during which time we had both regained the use of our second arm prostheses and bought a total of six cables. We had both learned a lesson about prosthetic care. But the best thing was that both Chris and I were together again, alone together for a couple of hours. Two quads admiring each other.

 

SEVEN

I watched Chris with fresh eyes. Now he had both arms and seemed reanimated. He was chattier, and alternated his hooks on the joystick. It was already dark, a late November afternoon. Talk turned automatically to our memories of Mexico and Thailand where we had become the men we wanted to be. The sun’s warmth on skin, the attention of the non‑professional nurses who simply cared for us, the delicious food and the sexual buzz between my nurse and myself.

          – You think he loved you?

          – I’m sure of it. I’ve had lovers before but no‑one was ever so tender. It sounds silly.

          – Not at all.

          – He was so handsome, Chris. That’s what I can’t get over. Knowing that I might never see him again, and even if I did, he would have changed. He would have a man’s face.

          – Sorry to break it to you, Dick, but that’s what happens. I used to be good‑looking too. I grew the beard to hide the wrinkles.

          – Oh man! You are still the best‑looking guy I know. You look like a boy with a fake beard.

          – Oh great! Thanks for telling me.

          – I mean you look young. It’s not a bad thing to look young, Chris.

          – A young amputee on two stubbies. And then suddenly with four stumps.

          – That’s the choice we made. We’ll just have to live with it.

          – Can’t grow ’em back, mate.

          

We were silent again for a while until we reached the ring road.

          – Would you like me to drop you off at home or can I tempt you to spend the evening at mine? We could have a beer and talk about the future. Your future. And I never got around to showing you my stumps.

          – Alright, thanks Chris. I’d love to.

Chris visibly perked up after the two hour drive and I was suddenly smitten with the idea of making love to another quadruple amputee with stumps even shorter than my own. I had no idea if Chris was gay or not but he had never mentioned a partner and his effortless sociability with other men suggested that he preferred the hairy sex to the other sort. Especially if they had stumps.

 

It is fascinating to see how another quad amputee functions in his own familiar environment. The furniture may look different but everything has to be adapted for limblessness. Chris had solved one problem with thick cushions on the floor as well as a two‑seater conventional sofa. I sat on it waiting for Chris to return from his bedroom where he was changing into ‘something more comfortable’ after the drive home. He joined me wearing a black T‑shirt and black shorts. He propelled himself with his leg stumps and fell against one of the floor cushions. He used his arm stumps to push himself around and rose to sit facing me.

          – This is the real me.

I was surprised to see how short his thigh stumps actually were. His stubbies were deceptive. They appeared to contain longer stumps than was the case. I stared at Chris’s crotch appraising his legless posture. He would definitely have problems controlling a pair of long prostheses if he ever wanted to regain his lost height.

          – You can pull my shorts off if you’d like a better look. Help yourself! I don’t mind.

I thrust my artificial arms forward to generate a little momentum and threw my weight over my rigid lower legs. I swung my arms to find my balance and stepped across to where Chris sat, watching me approach with a half smile. I spread my artificial legs and leaned down. I opened a hook and tugged at one side of Chris’s shorts. He lifted the weight from his buttock and the shorts were half off. I repeated the process on the other side with my other hook and with a little effort, the black shorts were off. Chris’s broad but short stumps were visible in all their magnificence. Hairy, still muscular and firm. But most shocking of all were Chris’s genitals. His scrotum was large and globular. His testes were clearly visible below the taut skin. His penis was scarcely visible through the bush of pubic hair. It was circumcised and featured a wide head with a curvaceous flange, dark red as it became erect. There was nothing else to it. Chris’s penis was only the handsome head attached directly to his groin. There was no shaft. It was the most shocking aspect of the remarkable limbless body before me.

          – How do you like my cock? It sort of matches the rest of me, right?

          – I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it natural? Did you have your dick shortened?

          – No. It’s natural. I’m pretty pleased with it, to tell you the truth. It was only after I became an adult that my cockhead decided to appear outside my body cavity. It works fine. I can cum with no trouble.

          – But can you jerk yourself off, Chris?

          – No. My hooks are no good. There’s nothing for them to grip, is there? I can wank by gyrating myself against a pillow or something like that. And of course, there’s always a man’s mouth if he wants to tongue me.

The head was as big as it was ever going to be. It was as beautiful a man’s dick as any other of normal length. Chris’s balls protected it, just as his beefy stumps protected his balls.

 

I turned my attention to his arm stumps. They were also deceptive.

          – These look OK, don’t they? My Mexican surgeon recommended me to opt for short stumps because he claimed that many bilateral arm patients become dissatisfied after a year or two. So he gave me stumps like this. They’re a bit of a compromise.

 

They had healed in such a way that the lower parts of the stumps were bereft of bone. The stumps appeared to be half the length of the former upper arms but in fact only a third of the bone remained. The difference was apparent only when comparing Chris’s ability to lift his arms and anything he was carrying with that of another amputee who had longer stumps. Chris’s artificial arms were visually impressive but unfortunately they offered little in the way of manly function. Chris was severely disabled by his inability to move his prostheses as much as he might have liked. But he had become used to being able to lift a litre bottle of water and little else. Chris folded his stumps across his chest. The tips did not meet.

 

I rocked myself sideways until I could lift my legs together and stood looking hopelessly at my friend.

          – Why don’t you get naked with me, mate? Snuggle up to me. Show me your stumps.

I was becoming excited and needed no further encouragement. I removed my jacket, revealing my artificial arms and hooks. They were over my T‑shirt. I struggled a little to loosen my trousers and allowed them to drop to my ankles. My underwear was as inconvenient but they also fell. My penis was fully erect, a fat chode which had been compared to a can of beer. It was only slightly longer than it was wide. I lowered myself awkwardly onto one of the floor cushions and set to removing my legs. I extricated my stumps and allowed legs wearing my boots, trousers and pants to remain in a pile on the floor. I squirmed around until I was kneeling and removed my hooks. My arm stumps were red and sweaty. The cooler air in the apartment felt heavenly on my skin. I quickly inspected the rounded tips of my stumps, checking automatically for abrasions or signs of blistering. I gripped the dual harness between my stumps and lowered the arms carefully onto the floor cushion. I did not want to tangle the strapping or cables. Chris watched closely, especially when I removed my hooks. His method was quite different.

          – Sometime I wish I’d kept my elbows. You have beautiful stumps, Dick. You must be proud of them.

I had never exposed my stumps to anyone before and felt ridiculously proud at being complimented by a friend I admired. It meant so much, especially as he too had handsome stumps, shorter than he had intended perhaps but successful specimens all the same. My long forearm stumps were good‑looking. I was very pleased with the way they had healed but at the same time, I was envious of Chris’s complicated and demanding prostheses. There were so many more prosthetic alternatives available to bilateral above‑elbow amputees. I had to simply cover my stumps with arm length sockets. Chris could select the length and play with a wide range of costume limbs, inoperative artificial arms which looked real but were completely immovable. I would never be able to disguise my amputations in the same way and it bothered me.

 

EIGHT

I waddled over to Chris’s floor cushion. He tried to make a little more room for me. I tried reversing onto the cushion but a stump caught the edge of the cushion and I almost toppled over. Chris leaned forward quickly, stumps ready to catch my fall, useless stumps completely incapable of catching anything. The gesture is automatic. I folded my leg stumps under me and placed my right arm stump around Chris’s neck. His lifted his glorious face and beard towards me and I clamped my lips around his protruding tongue. He tasted of honesty. Of self‑reliance and confidence. His stumps slid around on my upper arms in an effort to draw me closer. His breath quickened and his leg stumps twitched in frustration and excitement at his limblessness. His cockhead was ready to come and my chode felt as full as it ever felt. I rearranged my leg stumps to encompass Chris and pulled our deformed sex organs close, closer until they were touching. My limbless friend lost all restraint and chafed his stumps and groin against mine, flailing my chest with his useless arm stumps in an effort to pull me closer. My chode ground against his cockhead and seconds later the inevitable happened, covering us both in musky spunk. It soaked into Chris’s fur. We relaxed in the positions in which we fell back, stumps still twitching with pleasure. For the second time inside an hour, we were planning again how to get out of the situation, this time without artificial limbs.

 

 

 

NINE

We did not attempt to clean ourselves. Chris lay back in an invitation to toy with him, splaying his leg stumps and letting our mixed sperm drip off them. I moved into a position where Chris could sit on my lap. We necked more and I stroked his leg stumps with the tips of my arms. His shaftless penis bloomed again, eager for more. I was unable to bend my stumps enough to touch it and had to tolerate Chris’s agonised gyrations of frustration against my chode. This was the first time I had had a sexual encounter after losing my hands and I was impressed by the sensations my stumps both felt and gave to the other partner. If there was anything, I could have changed about the encounter, it was that I would have wanted to have identical leg stumps to Chris.

 

Thinking back from the perspective of years, that evening was the first time I ever made love with a partner who did not criticise or make fun of my chode. It was also the first time I had sex with another quad, someone who I already respected and admired. And now I loved him. We loved each other. But it was also the first time I really saw the benefit of the extreme degree of leglessness which Chris had. His stumps were never in the way. They looked superb naked and hidden under shorts. Chris had a choice of stubbies, peg legs or long prostheses assisted by peg arms or could simply sit in an electric wheelchair. That night, followed soon by others like it and then our joint decision to share our lives, sealed my fate. Within a year, I had undergone leg stump revisions, leaving me with stumps slightly shorter than Chris’s equivalents. I would never have the opportunity to use long prostheses but neither did I ever want to. I had two sets of stubbies made by Chris’s provider and experienced the orgasmic joy of inserting my stumps into phallic sockets which forced me to walk like an automaton. One pair were little longer than my stumps, with tiny steel pylons capped with square rubber feet. The other pair made me as tall as when I previously kneeled. They were sharply curved conical legs, a cross between stubbies and peg legs. My desire to be as disabled as possible while wearing prosthetic devices dictates the size of the feet on my stubbies. The ones I was wearing had thick rubber tips five centimetres in diameter. I walked by twisting my hips and flailing my artificial arms.

 

They are next. I can no longer tolerate seeing the effortless way he operates his hooks. I was infatuated from the start with Chris’s old pair of arms, the chrome pair. The two pairs he has worn since then were ordinary black carbon fibre. We agreed that my continual regret at not being the equal of my lover’s limblessness was a matter which should be corrected. I arranged two further amputations with my ever welcoming Thai surgeon. We decided that my right arm stump will be shortened to a couple of centimetres above my elbow. The left will be shortened to a couple of centimetres below my shoulder. Chris and I are fascinated to compare my adjustment to a new degree of disability. I am looking forward to wearing only one arm on the longer stump. My left arm stump will ideally be long enough to act as an anchor for my harness and little more. In any event, we shall both be almost legless bilateral hook users. Ordinarily, we might be pitied, but outsiders know nothing of our nightly explorations of each other’s stumps wearing one or both artificial arms, toying with each other’s deviant sex organs, thanks to which we would never have shared our best years.

 

R E G R E T S